


Wrong

by Westfelled



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Angst, Angst and Tragedy, Dark, Death, Depression, Gen, Gore, Insanity, Mental Anguish, Nightmares, PTSD, Resurrection, Suicide, Violence, White Walkers, Wights
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-05
Updated: 2017-05-05
Packaged: 2018-10-25 06:29:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,682
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10758633
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Westfelled/pseuds/Westfelled
Summary: Each time Jon Snow is resurrected, a piece of him is left behind, but the real fear comes when unexpected bits get added.





	Wrong

The first time Jon Snow dies, he dies alone in the cold.

For the Watch. That's why they do it, that's why they poke him full of holes and leave him to die in the snow. It all happens a bit too quickly for him to fully process, for in his final moments he still finds himself asking _why_ and he dies as a traitor with good intentions.

Most men would deem the notion of cheating death to be immensely merciful, perhaps even glorious. Unfortunately, such an experience is nothing of the sort. In fact, is the most sickening, unnatural thing that Jon can possibly fathom. Everything about his existence feels overwhelmingly _wrong_ and that feeling clings to him with every _wrong_ breath he breathes. It's as if his soul has rejected his body for the rancid meat that it has become, but some cruel entity would still have him inhabit it. When he emerges finally from that horrible room, his brothers clap joyous hands upon his shoulders to welcome him back to the land of the living, and he winces because nothing about his return warrants celebration.

Again, he finds himself asking _why._

Despair hits first and it hits him hard, but fury comes second and it hits harder. His final act as Lord Commander is to repay his murderers, and he finds himself void of mercy even as he wraps the noose around the neck of a boy he'd once loved as a brother. When he watches them thrashing pitifully in their last seconds of life, he had expected some amount of sorrow, or repugnance or perhaps even satisfaction, but he doesn't. In fact, he feels nothing at all.

He's killed more men than he can count, but not like this. Never like this.

When Edd asks him where he plans to go following his departure of the Wall, Jon cannot answer him confidently. Though his lips spew some nonsense about traveling south, the small voice within his mind reminds him that he will still be wrong in the south, just as he is here. Jon imagines he will wind up seeking out some band of marauders and perhaps die with a bit more dignity this time, but then _she_ returns.

She returns to him broken and with fire in her eyes and gods, how she's grown. They embrace and for a moment, just a moment, he's home. They commence talk of war and for the first time since his awakening, he feels like perhaps he was brought back for a purpose. If he is to die again, truthfully he can't ask for a more meaningful way to go than for the freedom of his family.

When day of battle finally comes, he finds it to be far different than anything he's experienced before. Men rip into each other ravenously and form piles of corpses as tall as the walls of Winterfell itself. Sweat drips from his brow and the stench of blood stings his nostrils, but something within him finds the scent oddly alluring. Reinforcements arrive just before a spear finds its way into his gut and steel clashes heedlessly around him as his blood spills into the grass.

The second time Jon Snow dies, he dies among a sea of faces and is filled with a peace he's not felt in a very long time.

When he awakens, his back arches from the ground as if he's been electrocuted and he is seized with an overwhelming sense of cold. His men are quick to hold him steady as he scrambles and heaves for a breath which dances just beyond his reach. Being of the North, Jon has contracted frostbite several times but never has he felt the sensation to such an extent, never has he felt it _inside_ of him, encasing every last nerve with ice. They whisk him quickly from the battlefield and the maester declares him void of any recognizable ailment, though he's adamant that his diagnoses may be faulted due to his inexperience with the undead.

The undead.

Eventually the pain subsides, though not fully. Jon learns to simply endure it, partially because it's all that can be done but primarily because it reassures him of his humanity. But still, that word clings to him, bounces within his head like a tolling bell. Undead, undead, undead. Not alive, undead. It's a popular opinion, it seems, as the men rarely look him in the eye anymore. He wonders if perhaps it's because they're afraid to see blue.

He avoids his own reflection now, because that's what he fears too.

The notion reiterates itself when Night's King begins to visit him in his sleep and such words are chosen deliberately, for they are not merely dreams. The Night's King _visits_ him, reaching pale fingers into his chest and enveloping him with frost from the inside out. Jon feels every moment of it, every burning, violating moment. Each morning, he awakens to tangled bedsheets and a sharp coldness in his chest as if he'd just run a mile in the snow.

Then, the itch appears. A relentless voice that whispers _kill, kill, kill_ into his ear and slips horrid images of his fingers tearing into the flesh of all who pass him by. Of the castle guards, of the servants. If Jon had been able to choke down any manner of nourishment before, such an ability now eludes him fully and it does not escape Sansa's meticulous perception. She inquires after him with a gentle hand at his arm, noting also his sickly paleness and the circles which have appeared beneath his eyes. He dismisses her with a wooden smile, falsely attributing it to something he must have eaten. Surprisingly she accepts his excuse, albeit with a suspicious gleam in her eyes.

In meager hopes of eluding another visit from those icy blue eyes in his sleep, he elects to stay awake that night. The visions hit harder when the moon appears, like icy waves pounding mercilessly into the rocks and he finds that the Night's King is not limited by the bonds of slumber. It begins with flashes in his periphery, so fleeting that he initially pays them little mind and attributes it to tricks in the flickering shadow. Soon however, the images cease vanishing and he's faced with the mangled and mutilated bodies of those he'd sworn to protect. Tormund's jaw hangs from his skull by a solitary tendon while Davos lies nearby with bowels sprawled across the wooden floor. In the midst of this, some small part of his brain alerts him to something in his hands and his gaze floats to investigate in a horror induced trance. Twin handfuls of long copper tresses are found clenched in his fists, slick with blood and creating swirling designs upon his skin. At his feet, she gazes up at him with unseeing eyes and red _everywhere_. Jon is not unaccustomed to gore but it is not the gore which sickens him.

That is how Sansa finds him, doubled over in his room and violently emptying the slim contents of his stomach, sweat slicking his forehead. The bed dips beside him and she extends a comforting hand, but he sees only blood and bone where her fingers should be. With the best intentions, she rubs soothing circles between his shoulder blades and he dearly hopes that she will construe his trembling as results of his sickness rather than the pitiful, silent sobs that they truly are. So desperately does he yearn to confide in her in this moment, to tell her of the dreams and the visions and the itch and for her to reassure him that everything will be alright. It's wishful thinking, for he dare not frighten her like that, dare not allow her to see through to this weakness or doubt her trust in him, not after all the horror and disappointment she's endured.

She smiles softly when the heaving finally ceases, oblivious of how her own shredded flesh dangles from her bones or how her bowels lie tangled in her lap. Jon forces himself to return the expression. He can handle this. He must, if only for her. 

One day, the horrid images suddenly become... enticing, and Jon has enough experience with the subject to guess what that might mean. He makes his decision quickly, before fear and doubt have time to change his mind. Ghost is the only one he says farewell to, for anyone else would surely try to stop him. Though, the ruby red eyes of his companion seem to do so even without words. Jon silently begs the beast to forgive him, for it is all he can do.

By the time they find him a few days later, slumped against a tree miles and miles from Winterfell, it appears to be far too late. The slits in his wrists have cut down to the bone and much of his left arm is scorched by a flame that must have died out before it could reach his shoulder. If not for the overwhelming amount of red in the snow and the daggar frozen in his fingers, they might have thought him to simply be sleeping.

The third time Jon Snow is resurrected, he isn't really. Though he moves and breathes and walks, his eyes are hollow and void like that of a dead man. Sansa pounds at his chest with furious screams of _how could you_ and tears streaming down her cheeks, but he simply absorbs the blows. It continues pitifully until Tormund pulls her away, eyeing Jon's stoic form with grief and with a hand on his dagger.

Within his autonomous body, Jon screams and pounds his fists at the barrier his mind has created in the form of an endless wall of ice. Just beyond it, Sansa weeps and he aches horribly just to part his lips and comfort her before Tormund tears her away. Thank the gods for Tormund.

For the itch grows worse with each passing moment, and this time he will be powerless against it.


End file.
